


PTB Homework 2014

by Ruffluv



Category: Twilight
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-08 07:24:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1931913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruffluv/pseuds/Ruffluv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of assignments for Smut University 2014.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Please note that the following story is not meant to cause any offence whatsoever to those of a travelling lifestyle. It is based on my limited knowledge and far-fetched imagination for the purposes of fiction and fun.

Spin my little world right up

The Moor. It’s a right of passage for all growing up in this town, a travelling fair that lands here every Summer—what we have of one--with rides and game stands and food vendor stalls, all stuck together piece by-piece, only to be dismantled a few weeks later and whisked elsewhere.

When I was little, the ‘rents would take me and it’d be all hot roast sandwiches and watching the bigger kids—including my dad—go on the ‘big person’ rides.

Then, in that awkward phase of being young teenagers, we relished the idea of hanging around somewhere that wasn’t outside of a corner shop or the woods, even if we weren’t really financially suited to the Moor’s climate. Still not up to the full-on thrills, we’d brave the rides that fell inbetween somewhere.

Then, one year, the Moor didn’t come. It was ‘cos of trouble makers, or low profit or something, but for a couple of years, just as I was old enough to really appreciate it, to graduate to the big thrills, there was a large expanse of green where it once had been.

The Summer I turned eighteen, it came back. I grabbed some friends: Garrett,--slightly overweight, but sweet as candy floss; Angela, who was like a log flume—a bit wet, but fun; Tanya, who was like the bumpy rides—a right laugh, but a side of a bitch, and off we went.

We took a bus into the city centre, then walked through the park, towards the sights and sounds of the fair: the outdated dance music, the big wheel curving into the sky…

We sauntered past the caravans at the start of the course, where the gypsies told your fortune for a fiver.

We did a lap of the entire set-up first, getting our bearings, taking it all in.  
For our first ride, we settled on the Waltzer—ease ourselves in, get in the spirit…  
But the waltzers around here were not your typical waltzers. Young—and not so young men surfed on the platform as it moved, like gypsy superheroes, spinning the cars. They never fell and they never slowed down. If you showed fear, they only spun more, as if they could smell it like the dogs left tied nearby as the showmen worked.

As we approached the wooden steps, I saw one such workmen stood upon them, beckoning us with two thick fingers. I swear he made eye contact with me. He was sun-kissed and sweaty from exertion, muscular from carrying heavy loads, with a look in his eye that suggested he might be carrying more. He had a mane of hair that looked quite mad in the best possible way, all sticking up and highlighted naturally. He was my new favourite attraction.   
He led us to a car of his choosing. I wondered if it might be special somehow, the fastest or the cleanest.  
Silly. With childish thoughts like those, maybe I’d be better suited to the teacups.  
I had no loose change, so the others gave me their fare and I handed a note to waltzer boy. My soft schoolgirl hands brushed his, big and calloused.   
Our moment was interrupted by a bellowing voice from the small operating room in the centre of the ride.

“Oi, Bal!” 

“Bal? What the fuck kind of name is Bal?” Jess jeered as we sat waiting in our circle.

“I thought I told you to let Alec collect the cash. What, don’t you speak English?”  
Jess laughed, but I felt bad for the guy. “What a wanker!”  
Bal, as he was apparently called, looked downtrodden as he walked past us to take his services elsewhere.  
He swept his T-shirt across his forehead to wipe away the sweat, some of which had wandered between the strands of that sexy hair.

“Ew,gross!” said Jess.

I actually thought it was anything but. And I told her so. 

“He’s a gypo, Bella. You’re hot for a gypsy.”

 

“I don’t think that’s politically correct, Jess. I think the term is ‘traveller’?”

“Whatever.”

Bal the ‘gypo’ joined another older guy in dismantling large pieces of metal all around the outskirts of the walkway surrounding us.

“Health and safety,” the older showman mumbled in explanation as they hauled the pieces along.

Bit disconcerting when we’re waiting for the ride to start.

But honestly, my focus was elsewhere. Like on the tip of tongue sticking out of my gypsy prince’s mouth as he lifted and carried.

They left the pieces outside of the construction we were in, next to the back part of a vehicle.

Jal stretched out next to the license plate of the abandoned bumper.

Long length, it read

Not even letting my mind go there.

When each offending block was removed, the ride finally began—slow at first of course, to lure you into a false sense of security.  
Then, we gained speed.   
Garrett was on the far end of the seat and liked to do this thing where he leaned all of his weight on to one side in an attempt to make us go faster.  
He needn’t have wasted his time; Jal surfed his way over the wooden waves, making it look easy to stay upright in spite of the forces acting against him. There was almost an elegance to it.  
He took hold of our car and sent us hurtling round at a speed that forced us back against the seat like it was no effort at all. Elegance and strength.   
The spinners were supposed to divide their time amongst the spinees, but Jal spent more time on us than usual. Was there a reason behind that, I wondered? Like a particular passenger, maybe? More teacup thoughts…  
Cut short by the operator that had shouted at Bal.

“Hands in the air! Scream if you wanna go faster!” He goaded us over the speakers. He was good at shouting, it seemed.  
“Do you want some more?” 

“No!” Angela protested.

“Yes!” I protested at her protest. 

 

As the ride threatened to slow, Bal was bound for our carriage once again.

“Hold on tight.” It was like he said those words to me and me alone.

And off we went again. 

By the time we’d come to a complete stop and climbed out to make way for the next lot, I was dizzy and unsteady on my feet.

 

Had the butterflies in my stomach only from the sheer speed of the ride?  
~  
I had to go back to the Moor at least once; I’d forgotten to buy a coconut to bring home. It’s like a tradition: you break it where the eye is, so you can drink the liquid from it, then smash it open and break chunks off to eat. Yeah, that wasn’t the reason…

I brought my younger sister and her friends, so desperate was I to see him again.

They were on some lame ride and I was left holding the coconuts.  
I watched “The Cyclone” in action: the waltzer-like cars running on a roller coaster track, rotating as they went, hypnotising.

Hot breath at my ear. 

“Lovely bunch of coconuts”

Bal. 

I whipped round.

“You know my name?”

I said it out loud.

“I…heard your boss..”  
“Oh. Well, actually, that’s my travelling nickname. My given name is Edward. I prefer that. But the boys call me Bal.”  
“Why…Bal?”  
He looks bashful. It means “hair”. 

Of course.

“And your name is..?”

“Bella.”

“Nice. Look, I have to get back. Those things won’t spin themselves. But Wednesday is my day off. I was wondering if you wanted to take a walk round with me-- that is, if you’re not sick of the sight of this place.”

“I’m not” I insisted. 

“Perfect. I’ll meet you by the big balloon stand at six.”  
And with that, he waltzed off.

My little party trod over the lumpy planes, exit- bound.

Since I hadn’t gone on any rides this time around, I had some spare spends.  
I glanced over at one of the signs outside the caravans littering the first few feet of grass.  
Gypsy Rose: World famous fortune teller.

I didn’t believe in that shit; the closest I’d ever come to having my fortune told was opening a cookie, and even that I took with a pinch of salt. Or sugar-whatever. But I was curious; I’d seen a lot of people queuing here at various times.

I laced the old lady’s palm with silver-or five pounds to be precise--and sat on the couch inside her caravan.

She asked me whether I was left or right handed, so I told her.

She held one of my hands, studying it, and told me a bunch of stuff I already knew.

It was when she took the other hand in hers that it started to get interesting.

She began talking of my love life—or lack thereof.

“I see many twists and turns in your future when it comes to romance.” 

This was all getting a little too weird for my liking.

I leapt up. “Thank you!”

“But I wasn’t finished-“

“I’ve heard enough.”

That was probably the easiest five pounds she’s ever earned.

Wednesday was as far into the future as I was worried about right now.

 

I found Bal—Edward-- at the balloon stand, like we’d said. A little girl was trying to give her balloon to him, despite his protests and attempts to pass it back. I guess females of all ages weren’t immune to his charms…

His off duty look consisted of jeans that resembled his on-duty ones, with a different red T-shirt, the colour of which he suited so much. 

He had some scruff above his upper lip and the beginnings of a beard.

On those “come hither” fingers was an array of jet black rings which sounds a smidge womanly, but they made his hands--and him--that much sexier.

He introduced me to hidden treasures of the fair that I’d have never known were there: the music stage off to the side, the tastiest snacks available, all the gossip about the vendors I could handle. We talked about ourselves as well, of course.

I could feel butterflies in my belly, being with him, even now my feet were firmly on the ground.

When we ambled past a games stall, I gushed over the giant stuffed pandas pinned up above.

“You want one?” Edward asked.

“Yeah, but these things are totally fixed. I wasn’t planning on wasting my time. Or money.”

“I can win you one.” His misplaced confidence was kinda hot.

“You don’t have to—“

“There is one condition.” He cut me off.

“What?”  
“If I win you a giant panda…you have to kiss me.”

Edward paid the man behind the counter and collected his three rings. One round a square block—which I’m guessing wasn’t made to measure—to get a prize.

Edward went through nine rings. He probably would’ve gone through more if I hadn’t pleaded with him to pack it in.

Then, because he must have known him, the man let him take a giant panda anyway—in exchange for a few more quid.

“I’d like my kiss now.”

“It doesn’t count if you cheat.” I corrected him.

He took hold of my chin and held my stare. “Kiss me.”

I was pulled towards him like it was hook- a- Bella.

I felt that hot breath and brought my lips to his.  
Just as I was getting lost inside his mouth, a passer-by knocked into us like an errant dodgem.

Edward glared at him , then softened his look when he turned back to me.

“Maybe we could go somewhere more…private.?” He suggested.  
I swept my arms out in a gesture that indicated that might not be possible in such surroundings.

“I’ve got a caravan.”

“Oh.”  
“Look Bella, I know what you’re thinking. Wandering man, wandering hands. But I only want to kiss you.”  
I took his hand. “Lead the way.”

The caravan was pleasant, as far as caravans went.

There was a couch—come—bed which we perched upon.

It wasn’t long until perching became lying as we took up where we left off with our kiss, with nothing to stop us.

From side- by- side, to him pushing me back, planting smooches down my neck.  
He sat up and ran his bejewelled, manly hands up and down my thighs, where my dress didn’t cover.  
I couldn’t help myself from sitting up myself to hitch up his T-shirt a tad and taste him; he took it off completely.

He cupped my breasts over my dress.“Can I kiss you here?”

Quite a clever way to get around the limits of the deal we made.

But I was in no mind to argue terms and conditions.

He nudged the top of my dress out of the way and then there was that tongue he’d teased me with the tip of, only now I saw more of it, felt it, against my nipples.

He inched down the sofa bed.

“And here? Can I kiss you here?” One of his hands caressed me over the top of my chosen underwear.

And that’s just what it was—a kiss, planted on my “down below” lips, his other hand keeping the material out of his way.

Just as quickly, he replaced the cotton barrier, with one last rub for luck.

Then, he removed the garment in its entirety.

“You taste like candy.” And he should know…  
He got back up to his knees, leaving me exposed and I took that as my queue to expose him.

Step right up!

I loaned a helpful hand in edging down his jeans.

He was going commando and let’s just say, there was no danger of him being too short to ride.

He readied me with the same two fingers he’d beckoned me with, wetting and widening me.

He let me be in control, laying back and bringing me with him, astride him.

I angled myself above him and held my breath as I sunk down.

I shifted above him slowly, his hands gripping my cheeks, then my tits as I straightened up. I wished his expression could have been caught on camera, like a souvenir picture.

He stole back control—occupational hazard—pinning me down with one hand at the bottom of my back and one at my neck, furiously pumping into me.

“More!” The phonetics of that word weren’t lost on me, even in that moment.

Sweat collected on his brow, at his hairline, with no T-shirt to wipe it away, and hands that were otherwise engaged.

I broke out in screams and his mobile home was probably shaking, but I was bothered not one bit.

If the caravan’s rocking, don’t come-a-knocking.

He cradled me in his lap as he came up to meet my face. I ran my fingers through that namesake hair, every look, every breath, shared.

Soon, he was leaving the bed behind, the beckoning fingers bidding me to come over to the built- in units.

He bent me over the end, holding his hands over mine on the sturdy surface.  
His mouth was at the shell of my ear:  
“Hold on tight.” He echoed his words from the waltzer.

He went white-knuckle wild on me, making me say his name—his birth name, as I soared into my orgasm.

With his seed on my lower back, my legs were too jelly-like to to clean myself up.

Would I always be left unable to walk when it came to him?  
~

Edward and I spent as much time together and got as close as the Moor allowed.

We even talked about running away together. “You could make the love and I’d make the money.” He romanticised.

But I recognised that it wasn’t reasonable—for now.

When he hit the road, he’d be taking a piece of me with him, just like all those pieces of equipment that magically turned into a wonderland when they reached their destination. Maybe we could turn into something next time around.


	2. Action/Interaction: Fire and Whispers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small outtake from Spin My Little World Right Up, focusing on the interaction of the characters.

Action/Interaction: Fire and Whispers 

The smell of the Moor is carried on the breeze from the distance: the freshly fried donuts, the pungent aroma of fear from the rides.   
Likewise, I hear the screams and music on low volume. But in our far-off field, my nostrils are filled with the smell of burning wood and my ears, the welcome sound of crackling.

From the corner of my eye, the fire burns bright: oranges, reds and yellows… But I’m focused on the sight of my lover before me, masculine, yet so pretty on the night’s landscape.  
“Come away with me.” He whispers in my ear--an order, not a request, the heat from his breath rivalling that of the fire.

I feel the friction of his hand in mine, as he brings me towards him and spins me. The warm air whips around me.

Being spun at his hands, with no heavy machinery between us—just my body at his command-- is the best feeling in the world.  
Then he kisses me, his exotic taste incomparable. No, that’s the best feeling in the world.


	3. Chapter 3:The Spice Rack

Lesson 3: The Spice rack

 

Korma 

Edward has really made the effort to smarten up for tonight.  
He takes off his leather trousers.  
“They’re probably wipe clean, but let’s not take chances.”He raises a dark brow.  
Still playful.

He has to help me out of my fiddly two-piece prom outfit, leaving me standing in only my long silk gloves and sheer ‘tanga’ briefs by the bed.

“You smell like biscuits.” He laughs softly, as he lands a kiss where I’ve been working on some girl abs.  
“Biscuits and Bella.”  
He brings me back to reality with that comment for a moment: the reality that I’m wearing fake tan—hence the smell-- and the hotel sheets are very white.  
But as noisy kisses fill my ears and I’m edged back onto the bed, I’m firmly back in my fantasy prom night, dancing the best dance of all.  
Rogan Josh  
“You smell like biscuits.” He laughs softly, as he lands a kiss where I’ve been working on some girl abs, just above my belly button.  
“Biscuits and Bella.”  
He brings me back to reality with that comment for a moment: the reality that I’m wearing fake tan—hence the smell-- and the hotel sheets are very white.  
I lose that thought completely as he loses another layer and leans me back onto the bed, continuing to kiss my naked flesh.

He feels for the bow tie around his neck, never taking his twinkling eyes off me. 

He holds it up.

“Not long enough.” 

Next, he inspects his scarf and seems to find it suitable…for tying my hands together above my head…

“There she is. MY prom queen.”

And with that, he gets on his knees to worship me, kissing my most intimate area.

He focuses completely on my pleasure, though I can tell it doesn’t come easy for him.

My hips move of their own volition, finding their way closer to where they know they are best off.

I could be more aggressive in my bid to be free, but the feelings are so much more intense this way.

 

Whenever I make a particularly loud sound, he peers up from his position to catch me falling apart.  
When I have fallen as far as I can that way, he barely gives me time to recover before he gets up on to his   
knees and guides his way into me.

There’s no other way to describe what’s taking place than making love. He takes his time, paces himself. He’s selfless for me.  
But it’s no less hot as he lifts me to hit it the way he knows I love. The way that will ensure I tumble towards ecstasy.

And as I do just that, I am not thinking about how bad I feel for not doing enough for him, or about how the night has been, blissful as it was.

As our bodies dance the most ancient dance of all, I am thinking not much else other than that I could get used to being his queen—his gypsy queen. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Vindaloo  
Edward has really made the effort to smarten up for tonight: He’s wearing a wider assortment of rings, some silver, some crosses, some spikes…  
His biker jacket is over the shoulder of his suit jacket until he lets it hit the floor.  
Round his neck, there’s an undone bow tie, along with an untied scarf.   
He’s done something to tame that head of hair and he’s scrubbed up his work boots, which are now nonchalantly strewn across the floor.  
And then there are the trousers: he looks good in leather, in this hotel room. 

He takes the trousers off.  
“They’re probably wipe clean, but let’s not take chances.” He raises a dark brow.  
Still playful.

He has to help me out of my fiddly two-piece prom outfit, his oversized hands not designed for the column of tiny buttons down my back. I feel the coolness of his accessories —in more way than one as those hands make contact with my bare back and breasts. He leaves me standing in only my long silk gloves and sheer ‘tanga’ briefs by the bed.  
“You smell like biscuits,” he laughs softly as he dips and his lips curl against my skin where I’ve been working on some girl abs, just above my belly button. His slight scruff scrapes as his nose touches down. “Biscuits and Bella.”  
He brings me back to reality with that comment for a moment: the reality that I’m wearing fake tan—hence the smell-- and the hotel sheets are very white.  
I lose that thought completely as he loses another layer and leans me back onto the bed, continuing to kiss my naked flesh noisily.

He feels for the bow tie around his neck, never taking his twinkling eyes off me. 

He holds it up.

“Not long enough.” 

Next, he inspects his scarf and seems to find it suitable…for tying my hands together above my head…

“There she is. MY prom queen.”

And with that, he gets on his knees to worship me, working his way between my thighs, bowing his head to be able to tenderly kiss my most intimate area, from the oustside in.  
He focuses completely on my pleasure, not even touching himself as he consumes me, though I can tell it doesn’t come easy for him.

My hips move of their own volition, finding their way closer to where they know they are best off.

I could be more aggressive in my bid to be free, to fondle those thick hair fibres on his head between my legs, but the feelings are so much more intense this way. Besides, in my gloves, I’d only get a teaser of how good he feels. I make myself at home in my prison of soft material- and his hard body. And settle for digging my heels into his backside.

Whenever I make a particularly loud sound, he peers up from his position to catch me falling apart.  
When I have fallen as far as I can that way, he barely gives me time to recover before he gets up on to his   
knees and guides his way into me.

There’s no other way to describe what’s taking place than making love. He takes his time, paces himself. He’s selfless for me.  
But it’s no less hot as he lifts me to hit it the way he knows I love. The way that will ensure I tumble towards ecstasy.

And as I do just that, I am not thinking about how bad I feel for not doing enough for him, or about how the night has been, blissful as it was.

As we perform the most ancient dance of all, I am thinking not much else other than that I could get used to being his prom queen—his gypsy queen.


	4. Like a Virgin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Losing V lemon

Virgin Territory

I wish I could say my first time was all round wonderful. But I’m going to tell the truth.  
There were the standard trials: the fear, the feeling of being lost, the worry it will hurt…

And then there was the fact that he was older. Like one hundred and nine older.

My name is Bella and my boyfriend is a vampire. A virgin vampire. Well, he was.

I had been broaching the subject with him for some time; all my friends were doing it and we actually loved and cared about each other, so at seventeen, after being together for months, I didn’t see the point in waiting any longer.

What did he think, I was gonna wait until our wedding night..? No way!

Though I did want him forever…

 

He was going to give me his virginity after over a century, along with the small matter of eternal life, so I figured the least I could do was let him do the deed.

In all seriousness, he gave me so much, I wanted to give him everything I could. This was something I could offer.

But I wanted to do it while I was still human. The issue there being not that he might thrust too hard and break his penis—I heard that can happen—but that he’d break me.  
It was over at his house, on his bed, with his family out barbecuing bears or some shit when it happened.  
I had shaved any unwanted hair and tidied up the old lady garden; I was good to go.  
Vampires didn’t have to worry about birth control, apparently. Bonus. We didn’t want any little accidents…  
As we kissed—a lot, and I got rid of my plaid shirt , I began to feel less shy, like I didn’t want to hide anything from him anymore in any way.

I went on to take his off his shirt and didn’t stop ‘til I finally had us both naked.  
The heat of my body juxtaposed—I learned that word in Mr Berty’s English class-- with the coldness of his, two halves of a whole.

I held him as close as I could, wishing I could feel his heartbeat against mine. That I could tell if it was beating as fast.   
But his face said what his heart couldn’t as he slowly felt his way into me.

Edward was bigger than average—of course. The big, sparkly, rich, Adonis-like vampire was blessed in the trouser department too…And he was so much bigger erect .  
I won’t beat around the bush here; it hurt like a bitch when he pushed through my barrier.  
I thought about asking him to take it out.  
“Tight..so tight.” 

What was he expecting—a whale’s mouth?

The small pool of blood forming beneath me nearly broke his will, but he kept it together.  
After a bit of the old in and out, the pain dulled down to a feeling of coldness, a sort of hollow- like feeling where we were joined.

I powered through.

It didn’t last long, though not for his lack of stamina, and there were no interruptions.

 

As for my expectations, I hadn’t expected to orgasm, but he did find a spot inside me-- and I found a few moments of pure bliss, just before he peaked and came to a stop. Man, did he look good in pleasure…

 

We moved quite quickly; I wanted to clean up, lest Edward like, lick the carpet or something...   
But we stayed close once the practicalities were out of the way. Just us.

I always thought I might feel dirty afterwards, but I didn’t. I felt kind of new. Shiny.  
I wanted Edward to tell me how it was for him, but the only real detail I could manage to get was that it felt like “when I’ve touched myself thinking of you before, only...wetter. And better.”

So having a wank, but wetter and better? I could settle for that.  
“I’m so glad it was you.” He whispered into my hair.  
I could definitely settle for that.

And now I’d never settle for anything else.


	5. UST-U should try harder!

UST-U should try harder

We’re in town, at club 10, though I don’t see any 10s around; this bunch have nothing on my guy. Not my guy.

We both agreed it couldn’t go anywhere; he’s a wolf, that is, one from a neighbouring town and rival football team.

And my dad, brother, male friends and their dogs support the Crimson Mashers , our own town’s club.

By support, I don’t just mean a passing interest; I’m talking season tickets, trips away, insulting chants about the other side…It can get nasty—like, fighting nasty.

It’s be more than my life’s worth to chase him. But what if he were to chase me..?  
The only thing I’m interested in chasing right now is a cocktail or 2, so Ange and I scope out the bar; I can’t be unhappy at happy hour.

We turn around, drinks in hand…and there he is. Across the dance floor.

What is he doing here?

With his fluffy hair all over the place, begging to be touched, even from this distance.

And those dimples and that cheeky smile, sent in my direction. He knows what he does to me. And I think I do the same to him. Two people, from different sides of the tracks, drawn together despite the differences…  
It’s like Romeo and Juliet…

He gives me a small wave, looking well pleased with himself…

If Romeo was twat.

“Ignore him,” my inner self instructs.

“Ignore him.” As does Angie.

So I try to do just that, while at the same time, showing him what he’s missing-obvs.

I pull out every move in the book on the floor—the slut drop and everything, but everytime I sneak a peek, he seems to be flirting with some girl that’s not me. 

Is he trying to make me jealous? Is he really not interested anymore? Do I need the toilet? Yes! 

At least I have an answer to one of those questions…

I tell Ange I won’t be long; we’d normally go as a pair, but I don’t wanna intrude on her favourite song.  
I slip off to the ladies’  
A slick of lip gloss in the mirror when I’m done and I’m out the door.

Right into his path.

He pulls me round a corner into a dark corridor, like he’s checked the place for privacy, and pushes me up against the wall.

“Someone’s playing little miss sassypants tonight, eh?” His face is right in front of mine.

“Hey, you’re on my turf, remember?”But I can’t help placing a hand at the top of his jeans.

“Well, I like to get out of my town. Explore.” His eyes do their own travelling up and down my body. “You should try it sometime…but you wouln’t wanna displease daddy.” He emphasises the word ‘daddy’, bringing up other connotations of the word as one of his hands hits the wall next to my head.

I can’t answer him.

“Well, if you ever fancy it, I could, you know, talk you through the offside rule…” I swear his lips touch mine for a second then, but there’s no extra time.

Just like that, he’s…away…

As he ambles down the corridor, he turns to me. “Ball’s in your court, baby.”

Fuck him! And his balls.


	6. Sex-cessories: Leaving a mark

Sex-cessories-Leaving A Mark

 

He’s in a band; We’re all in bands these days.  
And I’ve become his biggest groupie. It even says so on my T-shirt in a font made out of daisies: G-R-O-U-P-I-E.  
But it’s hard to feel shame when I look at him up on the stage.

He’s all trilby hat, skinny jeans and checked short-sleeved shirt on bass guitar.

And where the sleeves end? There’s an explosion of colour spanning the length of both arms—sleeves he can’t take off. Sleeves I wouldn’t want him to take off. As for the rest…  
I don’t have any tattoos or piercings myself, bar my ears, which it took me to the age of twenty to have done. I’m a gun and needle wimp. But I’m fascinated by them, by his in particular. They seem to match his energy. 

As he strums away, making his crazy on stage faces, I wonder if there’s any more ink currently out of sight.; I see at least one intriguing red shape on his finger as he grip his instrument.  
I wonder if I’ll find out—tonight. When he meets me after the gig. 

They finish their set, Taking Arizona they’re called.

We talk and drink round a small table, a few of us-- the band and plus ones, watching the other acts. Well, I’m still mostly watching him, noticing new details, like the holes in his brow where a piercing used to be…   
Soon it’s only me and him left. And it’s late.

He leads me through the now quiet city streets, stopping to kiss in dark corners, my ears still ringing from the loud music, ‘til we keep our hands off one another long enough to call a taxi. To his. Where I can see him in all his colourful splendour again.  
And touch him.

We’re close enough now—and alone enough, for me to feel the smooth skin, slightly raised in places, that makes up his personal art. I’m feeling with my fingers, but I look forward to using my tongue.  
Over his toned biceps and triceps, in the sea of red, yellows and greens, I can make out a face, maybe some stars, some ribs—or wings?  
I want to ask him what it all means; he’s told me he designed some himself. Hell, I want to run out and get a tattoo, just to have that bond with him.  
But there are other ways to bond, I remember as he finds the zipper at the back of my pleather skirt.

Finally, I get to unveil the rest of the canvas—will it be blank or are there more stories to be told under there?

I undo two buttons… nothing but a bit of chest rug. Four…Nothing again.   
With the shirt in two bits, there’s still nothing- except muscle and man smell.

But when I push it aside a little…a small, blue cartoon-ish figure…a dolphin?

I look up at him, expectantly.  
“Tattoo roulette,” he says, in explanation.   
Except, it’s not an explanation.  
I tilt my head in a gesture that shows I require more info.  
“It’s a game we play with the band. I lost. The loser has to get a lame tattoo. For a laugh ” He laughs as if in demonstration.

In that moment, touching that joke tattoo and shaking my head, I begin to like him that bit more, this beautiful, creative man that’s also fun.

I fear I might be playing roulette with my heart.


	7. Whole lotta history:Courting (Isa)Bella

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in the early 1900s, this is the story of Edward's would be proposal as a human.

Courting (Isa)Bella

When my father told me he had arranged for me to meet a potential young lady friend, a nurse from his hospital, I was dubious.   
At the ripe old age of twenty five, he seemed sure I should be married by now, even if I was trying to follow in his footsteps in my training to become a Physician. He considered himself something of an expert on the subject of marriage, having remarried after the death of my mother.  
This eighteen year old, eligible lady’s father, Charles Swan, owned a farm not far away and was hoping to carry it on through his only daughter’s marrying and having a family.  
Wholesome was the word my father had used to describe Isabella. Such a word did not do her justice. She was simply breath-taking. All long lines and elegance.

We walked with a chaperone upon our first meeting, her skirt trailing the floor, her corseted silhouette the shape of an ‘S’.

I admired how slim she was, her waist narrow, but her chest and hips full in her attire. It gave her the illusion of confidence, but I could tell she was a tad shy, which was most endearing.

 

I was fortunate enough to share more time with her and after a handful of outings I even found the audacity to steal a kiss or two.

Sometimes, when I thought of Isabella in…inappropriate ways, I grew hot under the stiff wings of my collar, a stiffness that could only be rivalled by that which I felt within my suit trousers.  
But my intentions were good and not all of thoughts regarding her were unsavoury. I saw her in the future, glowing and plump with my child. I imagined a young boy years from now, in a sailor suit, me teaching him how to ride a bicycle.  
I had gone to Mr Swan first, of course, asked his permission.

Then, I had made sure I looked my most presentable—moustache curled, hair combed, before bringing Isabella out on to the porch, watching her sip her cool iced tea.  
As the drink worked to cool her from the summer’s heat, I found myself wanting to heat her further, to pull away her dress and neck at her, pet her, like in some of those movies.  
But this was not one of those movies and she was not a common whore. She was my Isabella.

So, I got down on one knee, presenting my mother’s ring to her and asked her to do me the extraordinary honour of being wife.


End file.
